


Heartdrive

by mangochi



Category: Almost Human
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sexbots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-12 07:04:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1183317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangochi/pseuds/mangochi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"How are you?" the android continues, still with that friendly smile. John resists the urge to slam the door in his face, but that doesn't mean he's not still contemplating it. It doesn't look like the typical sexbot, wearing decent clothing and standing in an easy posture instead of draped all over the doormat, but there's something in the way those blue eyes glow and suggest that makes John want to step away and never look back.</p><p> </p><p>He is seriously going to kill Rudy for this.</p><p>The long-awaited Dorian!sexbot AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Ahh, I finally started! The excerpt in the summary isn’t even in this chapter haha, but it’ll show up eventually so don’t be weirded out by that. I suck at writing summaries…

John Kennex stares down at the obliviously young couple before him, pondering for the fifth time that night how he’s managed to come to this. The boy's seventeen at most, waving a poorly constructed ID in front of John's face that claims he's at least five years older. His girlfriend clings drunkenly to his arm, giggling with the bubbly confidence that comes with one too many watered down beers and five-inch heels that skid awkwardly on the damp pavement. 

He can’t possibly be in a worse mood for this right now.

"Look, kid," John sighs, plucking the ID away and snapping it clean in half with a weary flick of his wrist, ignoring the boy's spluttered protests. "You might want to try McQuaid's down the block, all right? Might be more up your alley." _And filled with cops_ , he neglects to add. Surely one of them will end up escorting the kid home that night, him and his gal. 

"What the hell, man? That was my-"

"Here." John reaches forward, sliding the broken pieces of silicon inside the boy's jacket pocket and simultaneously giving him a helpful prod in the right direction. "Take your card, take your girl, and get lost, okay? The Drive's not really your style, if you get my meaning."

The kid seems to struggle with the decision for a moment, an idiotic notion by any account, seeing as there really isn't much of a choice at all. To John's relief- it looks like he won't be scraping the kid off the ground tonight- the boy finally gives a jerky nod, spits out a confused expletive, and stumbles off in the night with his burbling companion in tow.

This, John thinks as he watches them disappear around the corner, presumably towards McQuaid's, must be a particularly malignant level of hell.

He briefly contemplates calling in his shift early and making up the hours later, but he needs the job and the rent's not going to pay itself. Besides, he owes Maldonaldo too many favors to skimp.

His fate thus affirmed, John sinks back against the cold brick wall with an ill-tempered grunt, crossing his arms and grimacing dutifully at the few passerby. He much prefers working the inside of the bar, where he's normally stationed during the week, but the weekend hours are fraught with minors armed with second-rate identification and delusions of inebriated grandeur, and Maldonaldo’s made it absolutely clear to him that not one beardless whelp is to slip inside her bar under his watch.

A curl of night wind tugs at his clothes, sneaking down the back of his collar, and his right leg creaks in complaint. Swallowing a curse, he reaches down and pats the side of his thigh irritably, trying to press the aches away. It’s been three months and the thing still acts up worse than a cranky old dog, giving out at the most inconvenient times and twitching randomly at others without his consent.

He tries not to think about it, setting his mind to another two hours on the street instead. It doesn't hurt so bad when he stares at the glowing club signs along the street, or counts the cracks in the ground.

“‘Lo, mate,” calls a quavering voice presently, and John raises his eyes from the glistening pavement.

“Rudy,” he says, wary at the sight of his neighbor swaying towards him with both arms around a couple of buxom bots. Rudy’s nice, all in all, but the walls between their two apartments are thinner than John likes, and he always finds it hard to meet the guy’s eyes the morning after a particularly raucous night. “Off work early, then?”

“Test-running our newest models, actually,” Rudy says, giving the two bots beside him an affectionate pat. “Claire and Gisette, John.”

John shifts his eyes cautiously from one bot to the other, taking in acid green eyes and silver hair. "Twins," he says, raising his eyebrows. "Kinky."

"Ah, well, no.....just a little,"" Rudy says sheepishly, and John wonders not for the first time if this is how an engineer of the largest sexbot company in the city is supposed to act. Maybe it's an advertising thing, marketing some sort of youthful innocence or awkward lechery-

He's distracted from his swiftly degenerating thought process by one of the bots- Gisette, or Claire- peeling away from Rudy's shoulder and tugging at John's hand.

"Hello," she breathes, eyes blown wide and her unnaturally smooth skin cool against his fingers. "I'm Claire." She shifts closer and he's frozen, staring at the glimmer of circuitry in her too green eyes. His skin feels too tight across his chest, his right hip suddenly flaring in pain. He makes to shove the bot away, but she's standing too close and he can't order his arms to move-

"Claire, sweet-" Rudy makes a hasty grab for the back of her flimsy dress, hauling her backwards. "Sorry, John, they're a mite frisky...first night out and all..." He bends awkwardly and tips his hat apologetically, the motion made awkward by his elbow hooked around Claire's waist. "How's the crowd?"

"Better in a bit, I'm sure," John mutters, his skin still crawling. He avoids the twins' eyes and shoves his hands in his pockets to avoid doing something stupid. "You always end up bringing in the big biters."

"Well," Rudy says modestly and leaves it at that. They stand there in uncomfortable silence for a second before John remembers himself. He steps aside, clearing his throat and staying well clear of the bots' reach.

"There you are, then. Have one on me," he says.

"Cheers." Rudy tucks a card into John's front pocket before he can stop him and disappears inside the Drive in a dramatic swirl. John sighs and extracts the card as the door swings shut, giving it a cursory glance before flicking it towards the waste bin.

Rudy leaves the things everywhere he goes; it's probably become more a habit than a premeditated thought by now, since he never fails to give one to John day after day. He's got a collection of them wadded in the pockets of every jacket he owns back at his apartment.

One of these days, he's going to step up and tell Rudy, for the third time in the few months they've known each other, that no, John doesn't want a sexbot, no, John will never need a sexbot, and no, John isn't interested in supporting SynSoul in any way whatsoever. It's not like they need the funding, anyway.

The night seems colder now, all of a sudden, and he thinks forlornly of the warm bar and cold alcohol, just enough to numb the edges. And it seems like he's got a lot of edges tonight, for reasons he prefers to not contemplate. Denial runs strongly in the Kennex family, and he hasn't been spared an ounce of it.

It's another hour and a half before his shift is up, and Maldonaldo's calling the last round, her voice clipping through John's earpiece and ordering him inside.

"About time," he mutters, shouldering the door open. Maldonaldo taps her nails on the counter pointedly as he transfers the credits for the night's work, then pushes a glass at him.

"Good work tonight, John." She's hard as nails, Maldonaldo, and her voice doesn't seem to have lost the rigid backbone of her courtroom years. John doesn't know the whole story, has never bothered to ask beyond the vaguest details, but there's a bitter divorce in there somewhere, from what he gathers. And somewhere a little further along the line, Heartdrive came to be.

"Is that what it is?" He grimaces appreciatively as he downs the drink, relishing the sizzling burn down his throat. The inside of Heartdrive is dim, but it hardly needs the lighting to glow. He sees glittering circuitry on robotic cheeks and flitting hands, glittering jewelry and teeth and slow drinks to the smooth undertones of old-gen music. It's the home of the midnight people, the street walkers who unwind to the call of amber fire and the lure of nameless arms for a night.

John's never seen the point. It's just another job to him, another door to guard for a few scant hours, but as he looks around now, elbow propped on the counter and a content lull in his gut, he finds himself more than a little wistful from what else it might have been to him once.

"Your friend's doing well tonight," Maldonaldo says, nodding at Rudy from across the room.

"Ah." John watches as Claire- Gisette?- throws back her shiny head and laughs, twining her legs coyly with an older gentleman's. "Didn't know you promoted this kinda thing in the Drive."

"It's good business," she says bluntly, swabbing out an empty glass and placing it neatly on a rack. "And Dr. Lom doesn't make any trouble."

"Dr. Lom, is it?" He's mildly surprised, but he supposes the man's certainly genius enough for it, somewhere beneath the ducking head and nervous eyes.

Maldonaldo snorts indulgently. "Surely you've seen his card before, John? He leaves about fifty of the things behind every night."

John grunts noncommittally and slides his glass forward across the counter. "Thanks for the pick-me-up. I'll be heading out."

"Same time next Monday?"

"You bet." He’s sure that he sounds as thoroughly unenthused as he feels, but Maldonaldo seems to find the answer satisfactory enough and bobs a simple nod in his direction as he leaves, hands back in his pockets and right leg dragging slightly.

The sky breaks open as he trudges the three blocks to his apartment, damp mist sifting to the earth and dusting his eyelashes, and John feels another miserable wrench in his right knee. He doesn’t need this aggravation, but that’s never stopped the universe from giving it to him anyway.

He fumbles for his keycard when he finally reaches his destination, fingers numb from cold and exhaustion, and the door swings open under his weight to darkness.

“I’m home,” he says aloud, if only to hear the sound of his own voice echoing off the empty walls, then smiles ironically to himself.

 _As if_.

* * *

 

“You’re stiff,” Valerie scolds him the next day, pushing at his shoulders again. John grunts in discomfort as he bobs a little closer to the floor, his lower back straining.

“God, woman, ease off-”

“You haven’t been practicing,” she says, and he can positively hear the exasperated pout in her voice. “ _John_.”

“Been busy,” he tells the wobbly space between his knees, blinking the sweat from his eyes as it drips from his temples. His fingers can barely reach the line of tape between his feet, and he wonders vindictively how this is supposed to help him with his leg at all.

“That’s no excuse. Max.” Valerie’s hand leaves his back and he hears her straightening, summoning her assistant with a professional snap of her fingers.

“Yes, Ms. Stahl.” The bot’s voice is bland and clipped, and John sees the gleam of its shoes in front of him as it consults its systems. “Mr. Kennex’s vitals indicate a blood pressure of five point six five percent lower than the levels of last week’s session, as well as increased tension in his-”

“Thank you, that’s enough,” John growls, pushing himself up into a sitting position with difficulty and scowling up at the android. “Damn bot.”

“Don’t talk about Max like that.” Valerie swats the back of his head lightly and crouches beside him, brown eyes wide in concern. He glances at her briefly before looking away. He can never hold that stare for long, all genuine worry and compassion and sympathy that he wants no part of. Valerie’s been his PT since he was discharged from the hospital, but their weekly sessions haven’t been going….well. He supposes that if he actually shows up to more than a couple a month, they’ll be better, but he can’t bring himself to attend yet another reminder of what’s happened to him. Of what he’s lost.

“You all right?” Valerie asks quietly, and he wants to shake his head. No, nothing’s all right. But thanks for asking.

“Everything’s fine,” he says, forcing himself to meet her eyes and twitch a half-assed smile. “Just peachy.”

She’s too smart to buy it, but also smart enough to let it show, and she only examines his face for a moment before sighing and reaching out, patting his synthetic knee through the fabric of his shorts. “Okay. We’ll pick up from here next week, all right?”

John makes a vague sound of acknowledgment and levers himself to his feet, ignoring the hand that Valerie’s bot extends towards him automatically. He feels its blank eyes on his back as he limps away, the muscles above his prosthetic tight and aching. The skin feels hot under his palm when he presses a hand against the side of the limb absently, and he wonders with a grimace if he's approaching rejection again. Biosynthetics have always been a touchy field, half as much psychological as it is physical, and his counselor all but spelled it out for him that he isn't ready yet.

He ignored the warning, of course, because as much as John hates the damn thing and however much his skin crawls at the sight of it, he'll take it over being grounded for good.

He scoops up his bag from where he threw it carelessly in the corner, and as he straightens, a card flutters out from the unzipped corner. It's one of Rudy's leavings, and he barely casts it a distracted glance before deeming it unworthy of bending over for again.

"Mr. Kennex, you have dropped something."

_Damn it, Max._

John keeps walking, hoping the bot won't speak again, but then he hears Valerie's voice and loses all hope.

"John, you've left something," she calls after him, and he hears her tapping footsteps.

"Toss it," he says offhandedly, already at the door to the showers. The last thing he sees before it closes is Valerie bending over to pick up the card with a frown.

The shower room is empty and he's glad for it. His footsteps echo dully across the tiled floor as he tosses his bag in one of the shallow sinks along the wall and steps into a shower stall. The privacy screen swings shut behind his heels, until he’s encased in milky glass that reminds him unpleasantly of sickly eggshells.

Moments later, the water’s hot and stinging against his skin, and he muffles a sigh of relief as it pummels at his aching joints. He didn’t bother to wash up last night after getting home from his shift, going straight to bed after a couple of cold beers and a vague wish for something more...substantial, and his body’s feeling the results now.

Two steps forward, five steps back, he can already see on Valerie’s report, and he only feels a little guilty over it. He likes Valerie well enough- she’s smart, beautiful, everything he appreciates but nothing he deserves, and his sessions of late have taken on a bittersweet edge that he doesn’t like one bit. But in the end, he's still alone, and he prefers to keep it that way.

 _I’m too old for this_ , he concludes gloomily, thunking his head against the wall and letting the streams of water roll down the sides of his face, dripping from his nose and chin. He can taste it on his lips, the parody of a kiss, and wipes it away hastily on the back of his hand. He washes up quickly after that and leaves.

…

Rudy calls him that night as he’s settled onto his sagging couch in a tank and boxers, one eye halfheartedly watching the game and the other pondering the clock, wondering if it’s too late to head down to the corner store for another case. He’s on his third bottle now, the empty two clinking morosely on the coffee table, but the fridge is running alarmingly low and he’s only barely taken the edge off the pain in his leg.

“Kennex,” John says reluctantly, after the third ringing trill from the comm. Rudy’s voice fills his apartment, the systems automatically projecting him above the volume from the television.

“Ah, John. Just calling to say….well, bit surprised, actually, but I’ve got a package for you.” Rudy sounds too uncertain for John's liking, almost like he doesn't believe what he's saying, and John frowns.

"Didn't know you took up postage in your spare time." He kicks his feet up on the coffee table and considers his bare calves. The skin tones match perfectly on both legs, but his right has an odd shimmer when angled just right, the barest flicker of circuitry that marks it as what it is.

"I didn't," Rudy protests. "It's an incorrect delivery, at any rate. I'll be sending it over to you now."

"Ah, no-" He hasn't ordered anything, and if it's some free catalogue promoting yet another useless technological wonder, he'll-

His doorbell rings, and John closes his eyes in despair. He gives the game one lingering stare, glances morosely at the last bottle in the case beside him, and hauls himself to his feet with a long-suffering groan.

The doorbell rings again as he's stumping down the hall, and he calls out irritably, "I'm _coming_ , damn it." He wrenches the door open on the beginning of the third ring, glaring out blearily. "Look here, I didn't-"

He stops short, gaping. It takes a couple of seconds to sink in, and the first thing he's consciously aware of is a burning need to throttle Rudy the next time he sees him.

The bot standing on his doorstep is just an inch or two shorter than John, built solidly with dark hair curling close to his head, and the pale blue of his eyes is startling against his skin. His teeth are blindingly white when he smiles and holds out his hand. "You must be Mr. Kennex," he says, ignoring John's thunderous expression. "I’m Dorian," he continues blithely. "How are you?”

 


	2. Chapter 2

John resists the urge to slam the door in the bot’s face, but that doesn’t mean he’s not still contemplating it. It doesn’t _look_ like the typical sexbot, wearing decent clothing and standing in an easy posture instead of draped all over the doormat, but there’s something in the way those blue eyes glow and suggest….not to mention the SynSoul logo branded across the front of his shirt.

He is _seriously_ going to kill Rudy for this.

"I didn’t call for a bang bot," John says gruffly, eyeing the way the bot’s foot is positioned by the doorway, as if ready to block whatever efforts John might make to evict him. Rudy’s door a few feet over is very quiet, he notices with a glower. And very closed. A smart decision, altogether.

The bot- Dorian- frowns disapprovingly. “I’m not a huge fan of that term,” he informs John, as if John _cares_ whether or not he likes it. “It’s demeaning.”

"Huh." John remains unimpressed, trying to inch the door shut slowly. "Look, there’s some kinda mistake. I don’t know who sent you, or if they think this is some twisted joke, but-”

“You don’t like bots,” Dorian states matter-of-factly, looking at John with a curious tilt of his head. His gaze somehow reminds John of Valerie’s, uncomplicated and genuine, but with something deeper that he doesn’t want to fall into, and John suddenly hates it.

“I don’t like synthetics,” he says harshly, and feels a tiny ping of something when the bot’s expression tightens a little. It’s a bit like kicking a puppy- that puppy’s not a puppy at all, John reminds himself. That puppy’s made out of hollow steel and wires and lines of programming. It’s not real, it doesn’t feel, and it sure as hell doesn’t care.

“That’s some real deep anger you’ve got there, man,” Dorian says, actually looking concerned. “You want to talk about it? We don’t have to do anything, you know, not if you don’t want t-”

“No,” John says brusquely. “I told you, there’s been a mistake.”

Dorian’s head tilts a little farther, and John’s surprised to see a trace of circuitry flicker at his temple. Sexbots don’t usually come with processing functionalities; it’s usually reserved for security or homekeeping bots.

“A call was received by SynSoul from a referral number around three this afternoon,” the bot eventually says. “One three-month trial for a Mr. John Kennex.”

“There’s gotta be more than one John Kennex in the city,” John tries. Three _months_?

“There hasn’t been a mistake,” Dorian says firmly. He steps closer and John instinctively pulls the door shut another couple of inches. Dorian doesn’t seem to notice, looking past him and bobbing expectantly on his feet. “Can I come in? It’s freezing out here.”

John finds himself unable to respond, much less point out that Dorian can’t feel cold, but he tightens his grip on the door latch and glowers for all he’s worth. “No.”

The bot frowns quizzically. “Why not?”

"Synthetic-free zone," John snaps, edging the door closed a little more. "I like my peace. And quiet. Neither of which a bang bot will bring."

"There’s that term again," Dorian mutters, actually looking put out. "Come on, man, have a heart."

John stares at him, then decides that he needs that last drink three seconds ago. “Go away,” he says brusquely. “Try next door, there’s a guy that works for SynSoul, he’ll get you sorted out-” He turns as he speaks, hoping to get the door closed before the bot can make a move. It’s then that his leg finally decides to give out, folding from beneath him with a mechanical creak and a whir as it abruptly powers down, and he bangs his elbow hard as he slides heavily against the wall. “Shit-“

There’s suddenly a grounding touch at his back, a hand reaching over his shoulder to grasp his wrist, and he hears the bot’s voice from above him. “Are you all right?”

"Let go," he grinds out, before the flutter of instinctive panic can completely constrict his throat. "Don’t touch m-"

Dorian tightens his grip instead, his hand fisting in John’s shirt as he starts hauling him to his feet- _foot_ , John corrects himself hysterically. He can hardly breathe when Dorian’s fingers slide up his bare arm, coming up to prop his elbow, and his skin feels like it’s going to crawl off. His entire right side is a mass of prickling numbness, and he’s pathetically grateful that he’s too shocked to feel the pain just yet.

"Here," Dorian murmurs in his ear, and John swallows sickeningly when he finds that the bot’s pressed against him, literally holding him up. Dorian doesn’t smell like anything, of sweat or perfume or pheromones, but it’s only a small comfort as the bot drags him unceremoniously into his own apartment.

By the time they manage to limp successfully to the couch, John’s stomach is in full revolt and he knows with a gut-wrenching flop that he’s going to be sick even as he slumps down into the cushions. A hand enters his swaying vision a few moments later, holding a disposal bin that John squints at for a second before recognizing it as belonging to his kitchen.

"Here." Dorian crouches in front of him, eyes wide and earnest. He touches the back of his hand to John’s forehead before the man can stop him, and John only manages to recoil weakly before he has to double over the bin.

Dorian’s hand is cool, and his fingers brush through John’s hair as he dry heaves miserably, bringing up nothing but an acidic burn in his throat. He can taste the sourness of the beer and bile on his tongue, involuntary shivers twitching at his shoulders, but he’s too busy gagging to tell Dorian to stop touching him. He’s only slightly surprised to find that it doesn’t get worse the longer Dorian pats at his head comfortingly.

"Stop that," he says hoarsely, when he’s able to breathe and think again.

Dorian’s hand stills, but he doesn’t move until John sits back and slaps his wrist away. The android settles back on his heels, taking the bin from John’s loose grip and setting it on the floor beside him. “Are you all right?” he asks evenly.

John exhaled exasperatedly. “Don’t you ever stop talking?”

“Hey, man, I can be quiet,” Dorian said. “S’long as you’re okay.”

 _What do you care?_ John’s too tired to ask. He rubs at his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose between shaking fingers. “I don’t want you.”

“Harsh,” Dorian comments mildly. He tilts his head a little, almost like a dog, and watches John for a long moment before saying, “You’ll have to talk to my handler about cancelling your trial subscription. Logistics, you know.”

John wants a drink. Or two. “All right,” he sighs, swallowing and grimacing at the taste in his mouth. “What’s the number?”

“It’s past office hours.” Dorian sounds too damn cheerful for the news he’s delivering. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until the morning.”

“Fantastic.” John resorts to grinding the heels of his palms against his closed eyes and counts out the seconds. He doesn’t quite make it to ten, but seven is high enough to slide by and it’s a higher number than he expected of himself, so he considers it a win. “You can stay the night.”

“Thank you.”

“You can stay _here_.” John jabs a finger at the floor, then indicates the living room with a vague circling motion. “The kitchen and bedroom’s a no-go, you understand? That’s the killzone.”

“That’s fine, man,” Dorian says, pushing himself up to his feet. He’s shorter than John, but standing above him like this- John tightens his jaw and forces himself to relax back against the couch cushions. “My charging pod’s arriving tomorrow- but don’t worry, I charged before I came here.” In preparation for what, exactly, he doesn’t say, but John can figure it out just fine.

“You’ll be outta here by tomorrow,” John points out. “Right?”

Dorian looks at him, the edges of his eyes crinkling in the slightest of expressions that somehow convey a smile without his mouth moving at all, and says nothing. John stares at him for a moment, then gives his head a single shake and looks down.

His leg’s finally rebooted, the useless hunk of metal, and his thigh tingles uncomfortably where the nerves are reconnecting to the limb. He flexes his toes, feels them respond stiffly, before bracing himself and standing abruptly. Dorian steps back at the sudden movement, and John feels his leg throb for a sharp second before it settles into a dull ache.

“I’m going to my room,” he says, and he doesn’t know why he’s even bothering to tell the bot this. It’s just been so long, he thinks, since there was someone else in his apartment. Real or not, a body’s a body and Dorian has a presence about him that John’s not used to. “Just……just stay here.”

Dorian nods, pushing his hands in his pockets, and John takes a wary step to the right. His leg doesn’t give out, and he takes it as his cue to take a few more steps. “I’ll be here, then,” Dorian says dryly, plopping himself down on the couch where John was sitting, and John gives him a suspicious squint that the android returns blandly.

Weirdest sexbot he’s ever seen, John decides as he traverses the rest of the way to his bedroom. He can hear Dorian rustling around in the living room and ignores them the best he can. The bot will be gone tomorrow, he reassures himself as he sits down on the edge of his bed and twists off his prosthetic. The ache in his thigh fades a bit, but just slightly, and he thinks longingly of the painkillers in his kitchen cabinet. It’s too far to go now, though, and he doesn’t fancy parading himself in front of the bot again, so he hops over to the charger, plugs in his leg, and flops down halfheartedly on his bed.

“Goodnight,” Dorian calls out forlornly, when John reaches out to turn the lamp off.

John buries his head in the pillow and says nothing.

……………

He wakes to the smell of something burning and is half out of his bed before he realizes his leg’s not on. Floor meets face in an unholy greeting, and he groans out loud before he catches himself.

“You all right, man?” calls out a voice, and John nearly has an unfortunate accident until he remembers, with an abrupt jolt, the night before.

_Oh God._

“What’s burning?” he yells back, pushing his upper body off the floorboards and trying to see around the corner. “It better not be my couch, you maniac-”

Dorian appears in his doorway, wearing- John blinks and has to mentally readjust to the sight before him.

The bot’s in an apron, a pale pink monstrosity that John doesn’t even remember owning, and the frilly edges are ominously singed around the edges. There’s another char mark higher up across the chest, and he can see a faint trail of smoke rising from Dorian’s sleeve. But there the bot is, grinning down at him like a loon and clutching John’s spatula in one hand.

“You okay?”

“Is my _kitchen_ okay?” John snaps, ignoring Dorian’s offer of a hand up and pushing himself back on the bed. He rubs at his elbow subtly, checks for injuries and finds nothing more serious than a couple of nasty bruises, one of which seems to be taking residence on his right cheekbone. “What’s happening?”

“Breakfast,” Dorian says cryptically. Something goes off in the direction of the kitchen, a high whistling sound, and Dorian’s face goes blank for a second before he’s gone in a flutter of apron laces and the smell of smoke.

“I don’t need this,” John says aloud, just to hear the sound of his own voice and make sure that this isn’t some terrible, twisted nightmare.

“It’s all right!” Dorian says loudly, somehow not managing to reassure John at all. “Everything’s _okay_. Crisis is averted.”

 _Somehow I doubt it,_ John thinks vindictively. He winces when he pops his leg back into place- the synchronization of nerves to biosynthetic system always has a particularly testy spark to it, but today it’s a little worse than usual.

He dresses quickly and walks into the kitchen in time to see Dorian slam the lid onto a pan filled with something black and suspicious. “What’s in the pan?” he asks, not really wanting to know.

“Pancakes?” Dorian’s voice rises questioningly at the end and John chokes back an exasperated groan.

“Look, those aren’t pancakes. This-” he bats his hand at the wreath of smoke floating lazily around his kitchen, “-I don’t know _what_ this is. Why didn’t the smoke alarm go off?”

“I disabled it,” Dorian says casually, setting down the spatula. “It would have woken you.”

John gawks at him for a moment, then shakes his head hard and reminds himself that it’s too early to get drunk. “You maybe stop to think that I might have _wanted_ to know about this?” He gestures around the kitchen to demonstrate the enormity of “this.” There’s a couple of eggshells on the counter, still slowly oozing on the smooth surface, a sack of flour open in the middle of a white duststorm and- John nearly has an aneurysm- a carton of milk sitting obtrusively in the eye of the hurricane.

“Milk. Fridge. Everything else, clean it up before the fire department shows up,” he orders, jabbing a finger at Dorian, who has the audacity to try and look innocent. “How are you so _useless_?!” John adds, unable to help himself. “Sexbots don’t have to cook, or- or disable fire alarms, or-”

Dorian’s smile dials down a few notches before returning to normal, but John notices. Some habits die hard, and his cop days never quite left him.

John scratches at the back of his head, finding it hard to look at Dorian for some reason, and looks at the door. “Just- clean it up, okay? I’ll be back.”

“Where are you going?” Dorian asks, suddenly looking uncertain.

“Next door,” John says, already halfway down the hall. “Gotta have a few words with the neighbor.”

……..

Rudy answers on the third buzz, looking flustered with sleep-deprived with dark circles under his huge eyes. “John. To what do I owe the extreme pleasure?”

“He’s in my kitchen,” John says, pointing accusingly at the door to his apartment. “He’s in my kitchen right now, Rudy, in an ugly ass apron and a fire hazard in a pan, and _he shouldn’t be there_.”

“Who-?” Rudy begins confusedly, but John’s already got a fist wrapped in the front of his shirt, propelling him backwards into the hall.

Rudy’s apartment smells like old pizza and ozone, and while he’s sure the guy’s a certifiable genius and all that, John’s always been slightly creeped out by the bot heads dangling from the ceiling and the piles of robotic limbs beneath the kitchen table.

“The damn sexbot,” he snaps, pushing Rudy against the wall and holding him there with a forearm across the chest. “Dorian. Ring any bells?”

“Sexbot?” Rudy stares up at him, breathing heavily. “The one you ordered? You know, I _was_ surprised. Didn’t think you’d shell out for the premium, though I think those cards I gave you offered a discount-”

“I don’t want him!” John says, raising his voice in frustration, and Rudy flinches.

“There’s no need to _shout_ ,” the engineer says, visibly flustered. He makes a move as if to push John away, then flaps his hands helplessly without making contact. “I heard you the first time.”

John can hear his own teeth grinding in his skull as he tries to formulate comprehensible words. “I don’t need him, Rudy. Cancel the contract, give him to someone else, I don’t care, I just-”

“Can’t be done, mate.” Rudy swallows nervously when John glares at him, but somehow stands his ground. “It’s a premium lease, like I- like I said. I don’t just hand you the public domain cards, you know. You’ve been a good friend.” He quails slightly under John’s withering stare. “Obviously, I see now that I probably should have informed you of the……the exact nature of-”

“Yeah, that would’ve been helpful,” John mutters, not bothering to filter his sarcasm. “Except I didn’t actually _call_ the number.”

Rudy blinks at him, eyes wide and owlish behind his glasses. “But you…..received a bot.”

“Damn right I did.” John steps back from Rudy and rakes his hands through his hair, not caring that it makes the strands stick up madly. “What the hell do I do now?” he demands, clenching his eyes shut.

There’s a long moment when he just listens to the quiet whirring of machinery and the beeping of random consoles in the background, feels the gentle stir of air from the fan on Rudy’s overcrowded desk.

“You could try it out,” Rudy says tentatively, and John’s eyes snap open furiously. “It’s just a couple of months,” the other man hastily backtracks. “You’re hardly home anyways, aren’t you? He’ll just be….there, that’s all. Dorian’s a caretaker bot, fundamentally, you know. Free housecleaning’s always a bonus, if you know what I mean.” He rattles off a nervous laugh when John just stares at him. “But I’ll call the company. Naturally. I’ll be right on it.”

“Yeah, do that,” John mutters, suddenly feeling deflated as he watches Rudy straighten his shirt with short, twitchy motions. “Look, Rudy, I’m sorry about all this. I lost my head a bit, and ah….” He palms absently at his leg, disguising it with a cough when Rudy’s eyes flicker down to the movement. “Sorry, man.”

“It’s all right,” Rudy says distractedly, plucking his glasses off his face and polishing the lenses on his sleeves. “I’ll let you know when I’ve got something. Just, one thing, John.” He takes a deep breath, lets it out in uneven bursts. “Do take it easy on him, will you? It’s not his fault that it happened like this.”

Now John really feels terrible, as if he didn’t already. “Yeah. I’ll keep it in mind.” He turns to leave, then hesitates, looking back over his shoulder. “What was the model again?”

“DRN,” Rudy says, looking faintly surprised. “I’ve got some reading material…..somewhere, if you’re interested.” He casts a helpless look around his cluttered apartment and John shakes his head.

“Don’t bother,” he says, and he closes the door quietly behind him.

……………

The kitchen is spotless when John returns, the counter and cabinets almost glittering in the sunlight. Dorian’s bent over the sink, scrubbing a pan, but he looks up cheerfully when John steps through the door.

“How’s Rudy?” Dorian asks, rinsing the pan as he speaks. John glances in the waste bin as he passes, sees the blackened remains of pancakes at the bottom.

“You’ve met, then.” John sits at the counter, leans his elbows against the top and watches Dorian finish washing the pan. “Last night?”

“We spoke. I had the wrong room.” Dorian glances at him. It’s a reserved look, careful and tentative, and John finds himself bothered by it. Sexbots don’t look like that, but then again, they don’t try to make breakfast for no reason, either.

“You can stay,” he says, before he loses his nerve, then raises a hand defensively when he sees Dorian’s grin. “I’ve got rules, all right? You don’t break my rules or it’s over, you understand? You good with that?”

“Copacetic,” Dorian says, still smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> Fic updates and general tomfoolery at my tumblr   
> [here](http://www.mangopuffs.tumblr.com)


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